


use me

by dreamcatchme



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Kissing, Kissing Lessons, M/M, Making Out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-17
Updated: 2013-05-17
Packaged: 2017-12-12 04:17:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/807141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamcatchme/pseuds/dreamcatchme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which there’s a fight, a revelation and a lesson in the art of kissing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	use me

**Author's Note:**

> I promise I like Joly really, it's just for this fic's sake I needed somebody to be a prick so I went for Joly. DON'T HATE ME PLEASE.

Use Me

 

Not for the first time, Grantaire has to thank the blessing to the universe that is alcohol for the unthinkable, mind-boggling, unbelievably fucking _miraculous_ turn of events that sweeps in and uproots his life that particular Friday night.

 

It’s late July, the weather is sweet and sultry and the Musain as usual is a hive of activity. The windows are swung wide open, shirt sleeves are rolled up and Grantaire laughs as Enjolras tries and fails for the eight hundredth time that evening to recapture his friends’ attention and resume their meeting with promises of _liberty_ and _international revolution_ and _seriously I am going to murder you if you keep drinking vodka like its water Grantaire_. He feels depressingly sober, though, so a part of him wants to reach out and take his hand, to move toward and comfort the blonde haired Apollo that stands on the platform before him and to kiss the frustration right off his face. But obviously that’s highly inappropriate and Grantaire has definitely never thought about it before and definitely isn’t feeling the urge to stand up and pin Enjolras against the wall and do it right now in front of everybody.

 

“Calm down and have a drink,” slurs an inebriated Joly, clapping Enjolras on the shoulder and stumbling into a seat at the bar before striking up a loud and obnoxious conversation with the barmaid, a tiny brunette, who nods rather than speaks and bites her lip in what appears to be embarrassment.

 

Enjolras says nothing more. The minutes pass, the volume of the voices in the room increases to a cacophonous level  and Grantaire’s vision clouds over as his hormones take over and the images in his head grow less and less PG-13. He’s distracted from his unsavoury thoughts, however, when Enjolras suddenly straightens up, jerks his arm forward and shoves the empty chair he’s been leaning jadedly on roughly to the floor with an anger that surprises Grantaire so much his jaw drops. There’s a livid crash of wood on wood, and every head in the room snaps up. Grantaire feels the tempo of his pulse increase as he stares into Enjolras face, taking in the sheer, uncensored fury he sees there and screaming in his head that _it’s alright, calm down, everything’s okay_ in Enjolras’ direction. But suddenly nothing’s okay and nobody’s listening and Enjolras is so pissed off that he has to visibly take a moment to regulate his breathing before he begins to shout.

 

“Sometimes I honestly feel like I’m the only one that gives a shit about the future,” he spits at his friends, pulling an aggressive hand through his curls and turning his back on the room, and Grantaire knows he’s seriously angry because Enjolras never swears, hates vulgarity and coarse language, criticises Grantaire when he uses it without a second thought which is all the time really. Grantaire looks up. Combeferre is staring at Enjolras, noticeably shaking now, with a mixture of shock and understanding on his face, Courfeyrac appears genuinely apologetic, and the others do nothing but glare at the floor. Joly, on the other hand, barks out a drunken laugh and bangs his bottle down on the surface of the bar so hard that the glass smashes.

 

“What?” Enjolras demands in Joly’s direction, furious, and subconsciously Grantaire slowly rises to his feet, his eyes not once leaving Enjolras’ face.

 

“Won’t you give it a fucking rest for once, Enjolras?” groans Joly, spinning ungracefully around on his chair and glaring at Enjolras, his eyes bloodshot as he takes a swig from a new bottle. “Not everything’s about you and your fucking revolution!” he shouts, a malevolent, taunting edge to his voice that cuts through the air like a knife. “Some of us are trying to maintain a social life here,” he adds, slurring the last three words into a jumble of mismatched syllables and turning back to the barmaid he’s spent the last five minutes trying ridiculously to chat up. She blushes and starts wiping down the bar, but Joly grabs her hand and grins at her, stopping her in her tracks.

 

The situation has already gone too far but Grantaire stands and steps toward Joly anyway, blocking him from Enjolras, pulling on his arm and turning him back around. “Come on, man, stop,” he says quietly. “You’re drunk, calm down.”

 

“Your _social life_ is nothing compared to what we’re fighting for,” he hears Enjolras shout venomously from behind him. Footsteps, then Enjolras is at his right shoulder. “Do you really think your pathetic attempts at flirting will mean _shit_ to anyone in a hundred –”

 

Joly lurches to his feet, grunting as Grantaire places a hand on his shoulder and holds him in place. “Joly, calm the fuck down,” he warns, because his adrenaline has kicked in now and for a minute then he thought Joly might try to punch Enjolras and that is not fucking happening on Grantaire’s watch, he can tell you that right now.

 

“Fuck off, Grantaire,” Joly slurs, glaring past him and at Enjolras instead. “Just because you’ve never been within a ten yard radius of a girl,” he hisses, rolling his eyes and smirking when Enjolras takes a step forward, his hands shaking. Joly laughs raucously, an unpleasant cackle, and for a minute Grantaire is genuinely _scared_ of what’s about to happen.

 

Enjolras swallows. “I don’t think –”

 

“Have I hit a nerve?” laughs Joly, staring around the room for what might be reassurance but gets no response – nobody knows where to look or what to do, so they all stare at their feet. Combeferre has moved closer, but he seems to think Grantaire has the situation under control so stays away. No one speaks apart from Joly. “Look at his face! I have, haven’t I?” He cracks his neck, craning his head forward past Grantaire and looking right into Enjolras’ face which, at this point, has twisted into a mask of cool neutrality and what he probably thinks is indifference. Grantaire knows him too well to be fooled, though, so he steps back and, unable to think of anything else to do to help in any way whatsoever, wraps his thumb and index finger around Enjolras’ wrist and just holds it. No one moves an inch. Enjolras pulse hammers beneath his skin, and Grantaire’s own heart skips a beat as Joly leans forward, his nose inches from Enjolras’, and asks, “Have you even kissed a girl?”

 

“Joly –” Grantaire begins but Joly holds a finger dramatically, aggressively, up to his lips.

 

A second passes. Two. Three. “How is that - ”

 

“So no,” Joly laughs, stumbling backwards and back into his seat. “And I’m the pathetic one. Fuck off, Enjolras, seriously...”

 

“I’m done,” Enjolras mutters, and a second later Grantaire is clinging onto nothing as Enjolras slips free from his grasp and strides out of the room, his eyes on the floor, his face completely blank. A shard of ice pierces Grantaire’s heart, and in that moment he wants to do nothing more then punch the loathsome, drunken smirk off of Joly’s face and smash the bottle in his hand over his head. Still no one speaks, so Grantaire shakes his head, spits “Well _fucking_ done, you prick,” in Joly’s direction and takes off in the same direction that Enjolras went, his stomach turning somersaults and blood roaring in his ears.

 

Two flights of stairs and three closed doors later, Grantaire takes a deep breath as he finally catches sight of Enjolras, perched on a window ledge in the tiny bedroom he rents at the top of the Musain, his eyes on the slowly darkening horizon, his face red and a stony expression on his face. Without saying anything, he crosses the room and sits down on the floor with his back against the ledge, then he reaches up and wordlessly places a hand on Enjolras’ knee. They sit in silence for a few moments, then Enjolras slides down from his position on the ledge so that he’s sat on the floor level with Grantaire and turns around to face him.

 

“Please be okay,” Grantaire finds himself saying, eyes never leaving Enjolras’, because in spite of everything Enjolras is a _human being_ , not a machine, and life and experiences and people and _words_ do effect him no matter how much he’d love everybody to believe otherwise. “Please be okay. I want you to be okay.”

 

“I’m fine,” Enjolras promises, a small smile on his face that doesn’t touch his eyes and breaks Grantaire’s heart.

 

Grantaire shakes his head. “No, you’re not.”

 

Enjolras laughs once without humour, his face falling and finally betraying his perfect, practised act. “You’re right. I’m not.”

 

For a moment neither of them moves, then, without speaking, Grantaire holds out his arms and Enjolras crawls into them, his hands sliding around Grantaire’s neck and holding onto his dark curls, gently, not tugging, just _holding_ as if he’s afraid he might disappear and leave Enjolras alone once more. Grantaire’s hands move to Enjolras’ waist, thumbs rubbing circles into his hipbones, and he turns his head, allowing Enjolras’ face to nestle against the crook of his neck. He feels Enjolras sigh, and suddenly all he wants is to stop him from feeling whatever it he’s feeling right now, to take away the pain and make their world alright again. Grantaire doesn’t know how long they sit like that for – it could be minutes or hours, but by the time Grantaire finally releases Enjolras and they sit facing each other once more, the last shadow of the sun is disappearing in the distance and the room is bathed in blood-red light.

 

“Joly was right,” Enjolras says, eyes on the wall beside Grantaire’s head.

 

“No, he wasn’t,” Grantaire promises. “Of course we all care about the r-”

 

“I didn’t mean that part.” Enjolras rolls his eyes. He swallows. “I’ve never kissed a girl. Or... or anyone, really.”

 

Grantaire’s eyes widen and he just looks at him, trying to contain his genuine surprise. Not wanting to upset Enjolras, he shrugs and says, “So what? No one’s forcing you. Joly was drunk and talking shit.”

 

“I know,” Enjolras says, nodding. “I’ve never really cared to be honest. That sort of thing doesn’t bother me at all. But... well.”

 

Grantaire pauses, his eyebrows raised. “What?”

 

Enjolras shrugs. “I’m nineteen years old, Grantaire. It needs to happen sooner or later.”

 

“Don’t worry, E. You know you’ll find someone. You’re...” He shakes his head and sighs, a small smile drifting onto his face. “You’re intelligent and passionate and one of my favourite people in the world to talk to and definitely argue with, even when you’re wrong and you won’t fucking accept it, and you’re probably one of the most beautiful people I’ve ever met and there isn’t really anything I don’t like about you, I don’t even mind when you shout at me for being a prick and drinking too much, I just.” He stops. It all comes out in one breath, and Grantaire doesn’t feel it coming until it’s bubbled up and is floating in the air between them. Enjolras smiles a little smile of his own and looks away, streaks of pink blossoming across his cheeks. Grantaire rolls his eyes, rubbing his forehead with his hand. _Too much, you idiot!_

 

“Can you teach me?” Enjolras asks, and it’s so quiet that Grantaire might not have heard it had he not been hanging on to his every breath. He smiles.

 

“Teach you how to kiss?” he clarifies, trying not to look too enthusiastic at this.

 

“Well... yes, if you want to.” Enjolras nods, finally lifting his gaze from the floor and meeting Grantaire’s eye. “I’d like you to.”

 

“Right now?” Grantaire murmurs, resting his elbow on his knee and his chin on his hand and leaning forward slightly, reducing the painful number of inches between them by at least a half. Enjolras nods, staring at Grantaire’s lips, his own parting slightly as he pushes his curls back from his face as if in preparation. When Grantaire doesn’t move other than to smile, Enjolras says, “Yes. Right now.”

 

Grantaire nods and tilts his head to one side. “Kiss me.” Enjolras’ eyebrows shoot up and Grantaire laughs at his surprise, dipping his head forward so that their noses brush lightly. “Don’t worry, I’ll teach you.” Enjolras nods once more then, after swallowing and licking his lips, gently leans forward and presses his mouth to Grantaire’s.

 

Their first kiss is chaste and careful, but after a second Enjolras relaxes slightly and their lips seem to mould together like corresponding puzzle pieces, soft and sweet. Enjolras hums low in his throat and Grantaire smiles against his lips. They break apart for a second and Grantaire has to fight to control his ragged breathing – Enjolras’ pupils are dilated, his cheeks flushed, and _holy shit_ he is the hottest thing that has ever walked the earth. “Good start,” Grantaire murmurs, words muffled by Enjolras’ cheek, “Now use your tongue. Make me want it...” Enjolras nods eagerly and crushes his lips to Grantaire’s before he can even finish with more fervour, gently at first then more demanding as the tip of his tongue traces the curve of Grantaire’s bottom lip. A moan escapes from Grantaire’s lips and they part under Enjolras’ administrations, granting Enjolras’ tongue access, and he tastes like alcohol and cigarettes and just _Enjolras_ and he feels like he’s drowning but enjoying every second of it. Enjolras licks into his mouth and Grantaire’s hand moves to his hair, tangling and twisting in his curls, drawing him closer. Enjolras pauses for a moment, coming up for air.

 

“Good?” he asks, his breath coming fast against Grantaire’s lips.

 

“Good,” Grantaire nods sharply, “more. Please, Enjolras.” Then Enjolras’ mouth is on his again, and Enjolras is everywhere and this time the kiss is long and slow and deep, their lips and bodies moving together as one. Enjolras moans, and arousal blazes through Grantaire’s mind. “Please,” he hears himself groaning against Enjolras’ lips, grinding his hips upwards. “Enjolras, come on, use me,” he bites out, lurching upwards and throwing a leg over Enjolras’ lap, hands reaching around and stroking the muscled planes of his back as he kisses him again like a dying man in need of oxygen.

 

Sometime later – Grantaire can’t say precisely how much – they pull apart, hands tangled in hair and caught up in hems of shirts, lips swollen, red and bitten and hearts thudding. Enjolras laughs, stroking his fingertips across Grantaire’s cheekbone in a comforting, friendly gesture that is just so _Enjolras_ that it makes Grantaire laugh too.

 

“So,” he asks, leaning his head back against the window ledge. “As first kisses go, how was that?”

 

“It was... spectacular,” says Enjolras smiling, resting his forehead against Grantaire’s. He shrugs. “I had a great teacher.”

 

“I bet,” Grantaire murmurs against Enjolras’ cheek, then kisses him again, and the two boys let go of thoughts and words.


End file.
